Elder Travel–Gold Winner: Honeysuckle Rose
By Jan Burak Schwert
I’ve always been a Willie Nelson fan. So the first time I traveled to Texas, I headed straight for Austin and Willie’s hangout, the Broken Spoke. When he didn’t show up, I had to settle for some old black and white photos on the wall.
I drove to San Antonio for a conference and was cooped up all week, gazing at boats sailing along the San Antonio River. As soon as the meetings were over, I hopped on a bell-clanging trolley and rode to the King William Historic District, walking map in hand.
Stunning Victorian mansions covered a five-block radius and stood in stark contrast to the rest of the city. Painted in lavender, green and yellow, the houses were surrounded by spacious lawns and sparkling fountains. Every home had an intricate glass door and lace-covered windows. I took dozens of pictures, from rooflines to doorknobs, and used up all my film. Little did I know how much I’d need it later.
At the edge of the neighborhood I saw a dilapidated bus that had seen better days, maybe filled with rambunctious children on their way to school. But now it looked as worn and battered as a broken toy thrown against the curb. I could barely make out the letters painted on the side: H-o-n-e-y-s-u… “Honeysuckle Rose,” next to a few music notes and a picture of a fiddle.
I stopped and stared. “Wait a minute,” I said to myself. “Could that be…. no.” But I knew Willie Nelson had a record called “Honeysuckle Rose.”
I crossed the street and talked to a young man standing in front of a restaurant. “That bus doesn’t have anything to do with Willie Nelson, does it?” I asked.
He raised his head briefly. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “He’s in the bus.”
“In the bus.” I took a moment.
“Can I go in there?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Nah,” he said. “His lawyer’s inside.”
The man looked to be in his late 20’s. He wore shapeless jeans and a flannel shirt over a faded blue T-shirt. Shaggy hair obscured his face as he looked down and scraped the ground with his cowboy boots. When he raised his head, his right eye focused on me, while the left one strayed to the side. I stared at him, wondering about his eyes, then followed the left one to an old guitar leaning on a bench.
I looked at the instrument, glanced at him again. My head jerked back as I realized where I’d seen the guitar – draped on Willie during all of his concerts over the past few decades. There was no mistaking the worn red, white and blue strap, the signatures carved in the battered wood.
“So that’s…”
“Yup. I’m supposed to guard it.”
I leaned over the guitar and examined the names. “Johnny Cash” stood out more than the others. “Wow, that must be worth a lot.”
“Somebody said when Willie goes it’ll fetch six million.” He moved it to the shade, and I saw his hands were shaking. Slouching and slight of frame, he seemed an unlikely bodyguard.
“How long will he be?” I was cutting it pretty close already; my plane would leave in a couple of hours.
“Not sure, maybe 30, 40 minutes?”
“Maybe I can wait… but I’ll need film. Any idea where I can buy some?”
“Naw, we just been here a few hours. Don’t know the neighborhood – or the town, really. Austin’s where we hang out.”
“I’ll be right back.” I sprinted across the street and darted into a little store.
Displays of tiny silver charms in the shape of body parts covered the walls. I recognized them as milagros, Spanish for miracles. According to Mexican folklore, if you need help, say, with a broken arm, you attach a tiny silver arm to a favorite saint’s icon and pray for recovery. You can use a tiny leg to ask for travel or a heart to wish for romance. If only I could find a little cowboy hat, I thought, I could pray to see Willie.
An elderly man behind the counter seemed custom-made for the shop, with small facial features and tiny hands. Engrossed in examining miniscule arms and feet, he had no idea I was there.
“Um, excuse me… do you sell film by any chance?” He jumped a little and drew back.
“No, no, you’ll have to go to the Circle K, maybe half a mile down that-away.” I started in the direction he pointed, then paused and re-crossed the street, so distracted a car had to brake and swerve around me. The guitar guy was still there, steadily looking after the instrument.
“So, d’ya think I can meet Willie when he comes out?”
“Pro’bly… well, I don’t know for sure. But he has to walk right by here, and acourse he needs his guitar….”
“What’s going on, anyway?” I asked as people carried equipment into the building.
“Jose Cuervo ad. In the restaurant.” He nodded toward a small hacienda. Potted fuchsias decorated the wraparound porch. I peeked in the door and saw bright green and yellow banners and pinatas hanging from the ceiling. The smell of tacos and enchiladas was mouthwatering.
A man walked into the restaurant with a large camera. I pounced when he came back out. “Can I buy a roll of your film? I used mine up and just found out Willie Nelson’s in there and I always wanted to meet him and….” I waved my Canon point-and-shoot.
“I’d love to help you, little lady, but I don’t think…. lemme see that camera,” he said. “Yup, my film won’t work in there. I’ve got a whole different setup. Wait, I’ll ask a couple….”
He went inside and hollered, ”Anybody have any 35mm film on ‘im? Lady out there wants….” A bunch of murmurs, none in the affirmative. He poked out his head. “Sorry.”
My face fell. I yearned for a picture of Willie and me, but if I left to buy film, I might miss him entirely. So I lay down on a bench next to the restaurant and practiced what to say. I promised myself I’d speak slowly for once in my life.
About twenty minutes later, I heard the bus door open and saw Willie walk down the steps and squint in the sunlight. He was duded up for the shoot, trademark red railroad scarf, hair tied neatly in braids, cowboy hat in place. He strode toward the restaurant, and my new friend left the guitar for a moment to intercept him. I saw him point at me, tilt his head and whisper. Thought I heard, “She’s been here….”
Willie walked toward me and I was struck by how small he was, no taller than my 5’5” and lighter in weight. His face looked old and weathered, peaceful and calm. He stood a foot or two in front of me, held out his hand. I shook it, and he closed his palms around mine. His skin felt warm and rough.
“Hello,” he said. I’m Willie Nelson.”
No kidding, I said to myself.
“I’m, uh, Jan, and… I, ah, I’m glad to meet you. I’ve b-been a big fan of yours for… I mean, I love your music, your, um, your style.” You’re blowing this, I thought.
“Well, that’s good to hear. Do you live in the area?”
“No, I’m, ah, here for work – a conference….”
“Nice place, San Antonio.”
“Yes and, well…” Remember what you wanted to say, I told myself. “I, um, I wanted to tell you how g-great… I mean, what a great job you’ve done with, uh, Farm…, you know, for the farmers.”
He seemed in no hurry to leave, just stood there, waiting for me to finish. But one of the cameramen called him over.
“Well, it’s been real nice to meet you,” he said.
“Me too,” I responded feebly.
Willie saw the walking map in my hand. “Would you like me to…?” he asked softly. I nodded and gave him the map; he wrote something down. Then he turned around and walked into the restaurant. An idiotic grin froze on my face.
Suddenly a cab appeared; I leapt inside, flashed a smile at my guitar man and zoomed off toward the hotel. Flying past the front desk, I paused long enough to show them my walking map: “To Jan, Love, Willie.”
I stared at his name most of the flight home and spilled the story to my husband the minute I saw him. He shook his head.
“Texas is a very big state. How in the world did you end up on the same block as Willie Nelson?”
“Maybe because I wanted it so much.”
“Did you get your picture with him?”
“Out of film.” But I didn’t need a photograph. The memory, as the song says, will be always on my mind.
Jan Burak Schwert was born in the shadow of Yankee Stadium and now calls Seattle home. An independent traveler, she likes to wake up each day not knowing what will happen. Whether finding a hidden pub, walking on glaciers in New Zealand or riding the Paris metro, she enjoys meeting locals and learning about their lives. A Solas Award winner, Jan has written for the Seattle Times, the San Antonio Express-News, Journal Newspapers, Travelers Tales.com and Bedandbreakfast.com Report. “Honeysuckle Rose” first appeared in the San Antonio Express-News on March 13, 2007.
